dear.
Don’t get so uptight. As it happens, I rather like you and I’m delighted that my little plan has worked out so well.’
‘What little plan?’ I asked sniffily.
‘To get you on your own,’ he purred, closing his eyes slowly and opening them again to fix them on me with a gaze that was almost hypnotic. I felt that shivery sensation trickle down
my back again. My previous moodiness immediately melted away.
I bent down to stroke him.
Kaboodle flicked out of reach. ‘
Never
do that without asking,’ he said sharply. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s being touched or picked up
like some common little moggy.’
I started back in surprise. ‘But Ms P is always cuddling you!’ I protested. ‘And you didn’t mind when she put you in my hands the other day.’
‘Yes, that was all right,’ he admitted, washing a front paw absent-mindedly, ‘but how would you like it if your father picked you up and swung you round the minute you walked
in the door without so much as a by-your-leave?’
I bit my lip. Secretly I would have loved it. Dad had never been a big one for hugs.
Kaboodle noticed my hesitation and put his head on one side. ‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘But what about all those times Ms P has ruffled your hair and called you
“sweetie”?’
This little cat knew me far too well.
Kaboodle waved his paw at me as if he were getting bored again and swiftly returned to the subject in hand. ‘I had to get you on your own so that I had a chance of getting a word in
edgeways. That friend of yours – what’s her name? Jazzie-some-thing? She does go on a bit, doesn’t she? Never mind. Now that you
are
actually paying attention to what I am
saying, I think it’s only fitting that we should get some ground rules established. First of all,
never
touch me without asking. Secondly, I’m really not that keen on that
so-called “gourmet kitten” muck that Ms Pinkington has left for me. I would prefer fresh tuna or sardines – can you manage that? Although I wouldn’t say no to a bit of
salmon or some more of those prawns,’ he said, purring more loudly at the thought. ‘Lastly, if that friend of yours sings one note in my vicinity
ever
again, I shall scratch her
eyes out.’
I thought that was quite harsh. Jazz’s singing wasn’t going to win that
Who’s Got Talent?
show on the telly, but still! Then something occurred to me and I drew a sharp
breath. ‘But Kaboodle, how on earth am I going to explain to Jazz that you can, er, talk? She’ll think I’ve gone loopy and probably send for the doctor and have me locked
up.’
‘Why ever would you
want
to tell her? Can’t it be our little secret?’ Kaboodle asked. If he had had eyebrows I’m sure he would have raised one.
‘Well, I kind of . . . I sort of thought that if she heard you say something when we’re together . . . well, she’d be pretty shocked,’ I ended lamely.
Kaboodle gave a miaow that sounded a bit like Dad yelling ‘Aaargh!’ at me when he’s so outraged at what I’ve done that he can’t find the words to describe how
completely exasperated he is. Like the time I put my trainers in the oven to dry out after getting caught in the rain, and then forgot that I’d put them there. ( The trainers melted and
turned into black glue. Luckily they were ve ry old and I’d almost grown out of them. Makes you wonder what they put in trainers, is all I can say. )
‘You don’t think that
idiot
friend of yours will actually be able to hear me, do you? In fact, if I’d turned purple, grown wings and started singing the National Anthem
she wouldn’t bat an eyelid. The only thing she is interested in is getting her precious money for those disgusting shoes she wants so badly,’ he hissed.
Holy Stromboli!
Kaboodle was shaking his head at me. ‘Listen. Mother told me that the feline species has been trying for years to get through to humans about the way we are treated, but most people are
just not
Don’t get so uptight. As it happens, I rather like you and I’m delighted that my little plan has worked out so well.’
‘What little plan?’ I asked sniffily.
‘To get you on your own,’ he purred, closing his eyes slowly and opening them again to fix them on me with a gaze that was almost hypnotic. I felt that shivery sensation trickle down
my back again. My previous moodiness immediately melted away.
I bent down to stroke him.
Kaboodle flicked out of reach. ‘
Never
do that without asking,’ he said sharply. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s being touched or picked up
like some common little moggy.’
I started back in surprise. ‘But Ms P is always cuddling you!’ I protested. ‘And you didn’t mind when she put you in my hands the other day.’
‘Yes, that was all right,’ he admitted, washing a front paw absent-mindedly, ‘but how would you like it if your father picked you up and swung you round the minute you walked
in the door without so much as a by-your-leave?’
I bit my lip. Secretly I would have loved it. Dad had never been a big one for hugs.
Kaboodle noticed my hesitation and put his head on one side. ‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘But what about all those times Ms P has ruffled your hair and called you
“sweetie”?’
This little cat knew me far too well.
Kaboodle waved his paw at me as if he were getting bored again and swiftly returned to the subject in hand. ‘I had to get you on your own so that I had a chance of getting a word in
edgeways. That friend of yours – what’s her name? Jazzie-some-thing? She does go on a bit, doesn’t she? Never mind. Now that you
are
actually paying attention to what I am
saying, I think it’s only fitting that we should get some ground rules established. First of all,
never
touch me without asking. Secondly, I’m really not that keen on that
so-called “gourmet kitten” muck that Ms Pinkington has left for me. I would prefer fresh tuna or sardines – can you manage that? Although I wouldn’t say no to a bit of
salmon or some more of those prawns,’ he said, purring more loudly at the thought. ‘Lastly, if that friend of yours sings one note in my vicinity
ever
again, I shall scratch her
eyes out.’
I thought that was quite harsh. Jazz’s singing wasn’t going to win that
Who’s Got Talent?
show on the telly, but still! Then something occurred to me and I drew a sharp
breath. ‘But Kaboodle, how on earth am I going to explain to Jazz that you can, er, talk? She’ll think I’ve gone loopy and probably send for the doctor and have me locked
up.’
‘Why ever would you
want
to tell her? Can’t it be our little secret?’ Kaboodle asked. If he had had eyebrows I’m sure he would have raised one.
‘Well, I kind of . . . I sort of thought that if she heard you say something when we’re together . . . well, she’d be pretty shocked,’ I ended lamely.
Kaboodle gave a miaow that sounded a bit like Dad yelling ‘Aaargh!’ at me when he’s so outraged at what I’ve done that he can’t find the words to describe how
completely exasperated he is. Like the time I put my trainers in the oven to dry out after getting caught in the rain, and then forgot that I’d put them there. ( The trainers melted and
turned into black glue. Luckily they were ve ry old and I’d almost grown out of them. Makes you wonder what they put in trainers, is all I can say. )
‘You don’t think that
idiot
friend of yours will actually be able to hear me, do you? In fact, if I’d turned purple, grown wings and started singing the National Anthem
she wouldn’t bat an eyelid. The only thing she is interested in is getting her precious money for those disgusting shoes she wants so badly,’ he hissed.
Holy Stromboli!
Kaboodle was shaking his head at me. ‘Listen. Mother told me that the feline species has been trying for years to get through to humans about the way we are treated, but most people are
just not
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